Page 206 of The Circle of Exile
Atharva smiled, turned away from their warm haven, opened his bedroom door and stepped out into biting cold.
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Stamina was a muscle. It kept working the more you made it work. As he stepped out of Briarwood Bungalow, Atharva knew he couldn't break into the jog he was used to starting his workout with. His warm-up couldn't be that intense — yet. So, he started with a brisk stride.
The lane sloping downhill was dark, reminding him of home. But he did not call up the memories of what was left behind. Instead, he glanced up at the intricately carved streetlamps lighting his way. They wore the cloak of dew, diffusing sparkles of light. Something new, something unique for the eye.
A milkman on the cycle greeted him — not with his name but with a blink of his eyes and a smile. Atharva smiled back. Kept striding downhill, letting the momentum of gravity power him. A young boy was running up with newspapers tucked in his rucksack. Atharva thought about that time when he wanted to pursue this as a profession. His mouth broadened at the memory of that naivety. He would always carry it, wherever he went. Any newspaper boy would remind him of that.
Atharva crossed the boy and inhaled the wet, wintery air, the deodars not even close to drying as the time for snowfall neared. Autumn in Shimla wasn't as ruddy as Srinagar. But why was he comparing? Atharva reached a turning in the slope and stepped onto flatter ground. A tea stall was waking to life. He took a deep whiff, the scent familiar even miles away from home.
Home would be found nowhere. But if he looked from Iram’s eyes, there was so much like home here, and so much unlike it — to accept and embrace. Her name sent a thrill sparking through his blood. His wife. The mother of his children. The woman he had given his everything to. The woman whose worth no man in the world would ever know because she was the gold that had chosen to glow only for him. She was cursing herself over this exile of their life. She didn’t say it out loud but he sensed her moroseness in her thoughts, sometimes plain as day on her face —With what face can I lament this when I brought this upon us?
In what words would he tell her that any price paid for her was not even worth thinking about? That he had lost his Bhagwad Gita, his greatest security blanket in this world to her once. His home was nothing in comparison to that.
But like she had given him the time to deal and heal and understand, he would show her in actions. Life was long, and hurdles too many. Some day, he would be able to show her that this miserymightbe due to her, but it wasn’t misery if it was with her.
The world around him brightened and stray sounds of birds now turned into a chorus. Atharva glanced up at the blush-pink sky and checked his watch. Time to step up.
The hilly road sloped down into the town square and Atharva broke into a slow jog. Steps were carved into stone and the valley fell steep to one side. He ran on the edge, feeling his inner child, his inner soldier, his inner traveller, his inner learner resurrect. The sun was rising golden, Shimla was coming awake around him, birds were singing. And he was returning to his purpose — whatever it was. He would find it again. Even if it wasn't as great as the one he had left behind. He would find it, or keep working until he did.
Because — bhagya and purushaarth. One wouldn’t sustain without the other.
Like the rains had finally cleared from inside him, he saw the sunshine soak into his chest and dashed. The balls of his feet were wired. His breaths were slightly swollen after long days spent in rest. But his feet flew. There was no competition — between stamina and spirit, spirit always won.
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“Zuv zuv!” Atharva called out. “Where is our breakfast?”
“Zuv zuv!” His son danced, standing between his legs, banging his hands on his knees. His balance was ten on ten now, but Atharva still liked to stand him between his upturned knees and get the last of his wobbly days. Once he became completely confident and balanced in walking, running, being his own person on his two feet — this would be history.
“Baba tee,” he fell on him, colliding with his uninformed cheek. “Oww,” Atharva rubbed his cheekbone, holding Yathaarth close and following his open palm rising high up, as high as it could go. “Yes, tee. So many tees. Let’s count,” he took Yathaarth’s palm and began pointing — “One, two, three…”
The sun was shining bright on this glass dome of the observatory and the deodars were sparkling golden. A rarity. Maybe it meant that winter was coming, finally, after a prolonged monsoon.
“He is too young to learn how to count.”
“Arth, how many tees?” Atharva nuzzled his hair.
“Theee tee!” He grinned with wide eyes and again began to fall on him. This time, Atharva turned his head in time and caught him in the crook of his neck.
“I won’t be left with cheekbones or the bridge of my nose at this rate,” he kissed the cold, ruddy cheek.
“He is pretty strong for his age,” Iram came around them and sat down in front of him.
“Myani zuv, sit on the mattress, it’s cold…”
“I’m fine.” She set up Yathaarth’s breakfast on the floor and began to break the pieces of roti and jaggery. Harishji, the caretaker, had once brought roti and jaggery pieces to snack on in the garden. Yathaarth had caught him and gobbled it all. Since then, Iram had discovered the joys of roti-jaggery and this greenhouse as the magic potion for a fuss-free breakfast.
“Aaaa…” she opened her mouth wide and Yathaarth’s mouth dropped. In went his first bite and tiny teeth clanked in glee, eyes squinting in that happy, naughty expression which had become his patent. Atharva couldn't believe he would soon be eighteen months old. This boy, with a quiet personality when he was born, who quietened the moment he was told he was a ‘good boy,’ who did not cry much except when he was hungry. From that little baby with a few facets, he was now a full naughty boy who was always hungry for sweet bites, jumping around Daniyal, wrestling on the cold floor and dancing to old numbers on the gramophone. This boy, who had a few words in his dictionary but what amazing words they were.
Zuv-zuv, Baba, Thava, tee, Dani, Noona (Atharva wished it wasn’t but sadly, Noora spent an unhealthy amount of time with him) and Vava (which was close to Thava but indicated Shiva, who gave him his food if Iram wasn't around).
Atharva sat Yathaarth down on his lap and folded his legs to hold him steady. They didn’t need his high chair if they were both present. Iram squirmed.
“Iram, come up and sit on the mattress.”
“It’s not that cold.”
